


Center

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Chosen, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:19:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eyes heavy and body finally lax in affectionate relief, Xander settled his body firmly over Spike’s, holding his vampire close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Center

Key. Lock. Turning. Door.

The door popped open, wafting the scent of freshly baked bread into the hallway. A few doors down, the petite little blonde, Melissa, and her petite little blonde daughter, the adorable Angelique, both paused in front of their door, sniffing appreciatively. “Spike in a baking mood again?” Melissa asked with a hopeful grin.

Xander was too tired to dredge one up in return, but he thought he managed to look pleasant. Maybe. “Smells like it. We’ll give you a call?”

The good thing about living in the same place for as long as they had was that Melissa didn’t take offense. That _could_ have been because Angelique started bouncing up and down and babbling about going to see Mr. Spike again, could they please please please and she had to convince Angelique that they would, but _later_ , when Mr. Spike said it was okay, but Xander was pretty sure he caught a wink. One that said ‘I too know the perils of a long day at work and you’re forgiven’.

Which was good, because Xander’s body was propelling him through the door before he could even say good bye properly.

Sofa. Sofa good. Sofa soft and cushiony and supportive and warm—leather was for pretentious pretty boys with painfully good taste and not enough sense when it came to spending money—and already pre-Xander shaped. Xander collapsed into it with a groan of relief, not even bothering to take off his coat. His laptop bag had been dropped somewhere between door and the almighty Mecca of the sofa, but Xander was too exhausted to really care. It would probably be all right, with all that damned heavy padding to protect it from the shock of thumping three feet to the ground. He’d look at it later.

For now, he was content to just sit there and let his brain unwind. He could sleep there. It wouldn’t be the first time. Sleep was dark and soft, wind warm against his skin, carrying him away from all the frustration of dealing with a boss that was retiring in another two months and making everyone’s life hell before he finally left. . . 

Sounds started filtering through his consciousness. The clattering and clang and drumming beat of Spike in the kitchen. _Why_ Spike had decided that his new ‘thing’ was cooking, Xander hadn’t the first idea. He wasn’t complaining, though. When Spike decided to do something, he did it thoroughly, masterfully, and with a breathless skill that left lesser mortals gasping. He’d become a good cook in the last half year or so, far better than Xander’s private expectations of exploding miasmas of inedible food stained across the kitchen. He’d concentrated mostly on baking, oddly, and had started feeding half the children in their apartment building things their parents would yell at him for, if they found out.

Oddly enough, though, most of the parents adored him for stuffing their children full of starch. Well, they just plain adored him. It was a very odd place of being. Xander, the ultimate father figure, was ignored for the vampire, who should’ve been the Lucifer of father figures. He complained about it regularly to Dawn, who laughed and said they were both good fathers and when was she gonna have nieces and nephews, anyway, huh? That prompted a whole _other_ conversation, usually full of stammering and blushing audible cross-Atlantic.

Every once in a while, there was a... relapse, for lack of a better word. A moment when Spike hated this new existence he’d carved for himself, loathed being more than just a white hat, but a softer, more handsome version of _Giles_. When he railed at the self-imposed hobbles he’d created and wanted to return to the blood-soaked freedom of his past. Those were hard, not because Xander begrudged the rage that Spike felt, the changes that bubbled up through him the way lava forced its way through the earths crust. He knew these were necessary, the way Spike kept himself even and _there_ , with Xander. But watching him hate, an avenging demon done with Frank Miller’s twisted grace, that was hard. Wanting to touch and comfort and being the last thing Spike needed right then.

The last one had happened just the week before and Spike was still fairly fragile. He’d compensated by burying himself in his work, a tried and true method of coping that usually never failed him. This time, it had. Work had been the equivalent of banging his head into a wall that constantly shifted materials and locations and densities, leaving Xander scrambling around behind it, hoping it held still long enough for him to continue his self-mutilation. The frustration there had mixed with the frustration of being at home and Xander had had no where left to turn.

Something clinked, soft and muffled, before him. Xander forced blood-shot eyes open to see a wine glass full of a rich, red liquid. Wine. Wine was good. So was the basket of fresh rolls, one already split open and dripping with butter, the scent of which was almost better than the taste would be when he finally reached over and picked it up.

Better still, though, was the body warmed from slaving away before a hot stove that slid next to and half under his own, more supportive than the sofa and far, far more welcome.

“Hi.” Xander very definitely was not thinking of metaphors that used objects like kid gloves or delicate glass figurines or anything that meant Spike was still possibly too delicate for Xander to trust that the hellion from the last week was truly gone. “It smells good.”

Spike chuckled, deep and low, thrumming through their smooshed together bodies to find the little ball of tension and start kneading it loose. “It’ll taste good, too, love. Food’s not supposed to be stared at, you know.”

Xander’s shoulders let go with a force so sharp Xander was waiting for the ‘twang’, his body molding against Spike’s, arms around Spike’s waist, face pressed into the curve of Spike’s shoulder and neck and suddenly, everything was so so much better. It wasn’t something definable, something Xander could dish about with Buffy and say ‘this, this was the point when I knew things would be okay again’. Just that suddenly everything that was bad was manageable again, because Spike was back, Spike was there, with him, and he’d passed through his latest crises intact. “Love you.”

Fingers wound through his hair, holding him close and safe and utterly, utterly perfect. “Love you too. Go to sleep, pet.”

It wasn’t that Xander _minded_ being spoiled, a common reaction to Spike’s rare freak outs, but Xander figured he should probably be awake for it. “But ... you cooked.”

“And I’ll cook again. C’mon. You’re tired, and I wanna feel you.” Spike shifted and wiggled, eel-like, while deft fingers removed the most uncomfortable of Xander’s clothing and stretched them both out along the sofa big enough for five. “Go to sleep, Xander. Food’ll be there later. I can always cook you more.”

Eyes heavy and body finally lax in affectionate relief, Xander settled his body firmly over Spike’s, holding his vampire close. “We should invite Angelique and ‘Lissa over later,” he mumbled, apropo of whatever formless images he saw behind his eyelids.

More fingers in his hair, down his neck, over his body. This wasn’t the lover’s caress that Spike was so adept at. This was a catalog, a reassurance, and Xander melted into it with a sense of contentment strong enough that it was almost religious. Lips brushed against his forehead.

“Got all weekend to do that, love. But later. Sleep now, Xan; I’ve got you.”


End file.
